Séance for a Vampire by Fred Saberhagen (ebook reader macos .TXT) 📕

It occurred to me for the first time to wonder whether Prince Dracula might have as many lairs or refuges in different parts of London as did Sherlock Holmes himself.

It was near midnight when we had arrived outside Victoria Station. As I was handing my companion’s carpetbag out to him, I both heard and felt a slight crunching of its contents, and the thought flashed across my mind that they must consist at least partially of dry earth. Dracula, I realized, must be carrying with him, as part of his regular baggage, a supply of his native soil. This substance was not, of course, to be consumed, but served as a necessary adjunct for vampirish sleep; to a man or woman of his race–or tribe, or species, if either of those classifications is more accurate–the soil of one’s homeland is every bit as much a necessity as food or water is to us.

There seemed nothing better to do with our captured vehicle than abandon it just outside the station. An hour later, my new associate and I boarded the next available train to buckinghamshire. It carried us out of London in the very early morning, more than twenty-four hours after Holmes’s disappearance.

Fortunately, at this early hour, we had a carriage to ourselves, illuminated by a dim electric light. Long before the great metropolis had fallen behind us, I had begun to relate to Prince Dracula in detail the facts of that last and dreadful séance in Norberton House, and its violent aftermath.

Dracula, seated opposite me, his body swaying in what seemed to me a faintly reptilian fashion with the motion of the train, was paying close attention. The prince studied me intently over a pyramid formed by his pale, long-nailed fingers–a gesture which emphasized his resemblance to his missing cousin–and interrupted once to express his contempt for séances in general.

“I have no patience with such spirit gropings, whether the perpetrators know they are employing trickery, or have convinced themselves that the effects they produce are genuine.”

“No?” Perhaps illogically, I was surprised.

“No.” He shook his head decisively. “In my experience, Doctor, men and women who have died the true death are thenceforward permanently and effectively separated from all the things and people of this world. It is my opinion that no amount of concentrated mental effort by one’s fellow humans, sitting in a darkened room, is going to change that fact. Now, I shall be obliged if you can begin at the beginning–or wherever you think best–and state your reasons for believing that at this moment, Cousin Sherlock is personally in great peril, and has not merely immersed himself in one of his eccentric modes of investigation.”

I began with the story which had been told us by our client Ambrose Altamont, and added the results of our subsequent investigation, giving as much detail as I could immediately recall. My auditor listened attentively, and almost without further interruption, only nodding soberly from time to time. At the conclusion of my tale I yawned uncontrollably, feeling a certain relief in having unburdened myself of my fears, and having done my duty, as I thought, to the best of my ability.

The prince seemed to concur. “I believe you have done well to call upon me. Regrettably, I cannot be sanguine about our chances of getting Cousin Sherlock back alive–but at the very least, Doctor, we will take a thorough vengeance upon his enemy.” My companion smiled, in a way that he evidently meant to be reassuring. “Now you should get some more sleep.”

Dracula’s voice as he uttered the last phrase seemed to reach me from a considerable distance. He had already drawn the blinds over the windows to shut out as much as possible, the rays of the newly risen sun, and in the dimness of the compartment, nothing but his eyes seemed clearly visible. The rocking motion of the train, the steady tumult of the engine, and the muffled chatter of wheels on rails were irresistibly lulling. I seem to recall beginning some formal protest; and then the next thing I remember is that pale and powerful hand upon my shoulder, that oddly reassuring voice informing me that we were pulling into Amberley.

I found myself notably refreshed by the brief slumber. There had been some delays en route, and the time of our arrival was midmorning, only a few hours earlier than on my previous trip with Holmes.

While on the train, the prince and I had decided to postpone, or omit altogether, any social call at Norberton House. The omission would put off the whole question of whether I was to introduce my new companion to the Altamont family, and if so, under what name? In any case I had not been invited to return as a guest of the Altamonts, and could expect no better than a cool reception on their doorstep.

Instead, Prince Dracula and I proceeded at once to secure lodgings at one of the local inns, with which the village and its surrounding neighborhood were fortunately well provided. A number of journalists and high police officials were already staying in the neighborhood because of the continuing investigation, and the promised inquest into the death of Abraham Kirkaldy. We heard that the latter function was currently being delayed at the request of the police, because at least one important witness–the reference was to Sherlock Holmes, no doubt– could not be found.

At any rate, when my companion exerted all of his considerable charm upon the landlady, we were able to get rooms at the Saracen’s Head, where Inspector Merivale was also staying–I thought that for some reason the name of the establishment particularly appealed to the prince. At the time of our arrival the landlord informed us that the Scotland Yard man was out in the countryside, continuing to lead the search for Holmes and for Louisa Altamont.

We assumed that Armstrong would soon return from London, and would again be staying at Norberton House.

The question of an exhumation had been raised earlier